


the purple thingamagummy

by q_19



Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:44:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9066400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/q_19/pseuds/q_19
Summary: christmas floofDec 26 post for the advent calendar





	

**Author's Note:**

> tried my hand at fluff as a break from the intensity of that other thing i'm working on...

She’s been to every toy store in the city, even ventured out to the suburbs a few times. Every minute of her free time spent chasing after the new purple thingamagummy that every four year old wants for Christmas. 

Sold out everywhere, has been for months. Internet rumours of new stock sending waves of frantic parents to stores all over the state. 

Carrie sighs. She’s completely bewildered by all this, knows nothing about this kind of shit. As a toddler Frannie had been happy with anything. But now it’s going to be a super tantrum on Christmas, possible childhood trauma because she can’t get this thingamagummy that her kid as been asking her for since she got back from Berlin. 

If she had just bought the damn thing then, Carrie thinks for the millionth time. But no, she had been all caught up in dealing with the aftermath of yet another crazy episode in her life. And then suddenly it was too late, every single thingamagummy sold out, through most of North America. 

And now it’s Christmas Eve, still no thingmagummy in her possession. Carrie puts the last of Frannie’s presents under the tree, sighs again. 

Fuck, Carrie thinks. She can solve global conspiracies, save lives. But she can’t decipher basic consumerism, regular parenting situations. 

She failed in this, the simplest of tasks. Making a perfect Christmas for her daughter, after they’d been apart for so long. 

Of course it shouldn’t be a big deal. Frannie is old enough to learn that you can’t always get everything you want, that parents aren’t infallible. But Carrie had really wanted to get it right, make it the best Christmas ever for her daughter. 

And so she goes to bed with a heavy heart, in nervous anticipation of Christmas Day. 

*

It’s terrible to dread something that’s supposed to be full of joy, happiness. But when a small bundle of excitement bounces into her bed on Christmas Day, Carrie feels her heart sink into her stomach. 

Christmas Day. No thingamagummy. And she knows it’s why Frannie is so excited, pulling her out of bed at six am. Her daughter is so sure she’s going to get her heart’s desire because she’s been extra good that year. 

But there’s nothing to do but play along, smile at her kid, give her a Christmas morning kiss. Let herself get pulled out of bed for present time.

Frannie goes straight for her stocking, dumps it out with glee. It’s full of candy canes, bejeweled trinkets and she dutifully looks at each quickly before moving on, heading straight for the tree. 

“Which one’s for me?” she asks, with barely contained exuberance. 

Carrie passes Frannie her presents one by one. The first is from Maggie, a new dress. The next from her cousins, a board game. 

Then her present from Santa, a collection of books and a stuffed toy. And then finally her gift from Carrie, the one in the biggest box ever. 

Frannie’s eyes grow wide at her new bike as it’s pulled out of the box, excitement palpable. And yet after a moment of looking at the bike, she’s back under the tree, sure that she must be missing a present still.

Carrie watches as Frannie searches under the tree, her heart starting to sink again. The other presents had distracted Frannie from her true wish but she was Carrie’s kid. Determined, relentless. The thingamagummy is everything to her little four year old mind. And Carrie senses an implosion coming, a Christmas-ruining tantrum of a very disappointed child. 

Frannie is clearly getting frustrated, looks through the few presents left with an increasingly unhappy expression. And Carrie is trying to figure out what to do, how to distract her kid from the imminent disappointment when all of a sudden Frannie calls out from under the tree, deep in the corner behind the curtains.

“This one’s for me!” she hollers, all smiles and excitement again. Comes out with an unfamiliar looking present that had been partially hidden under a curtain.

Carrie does a double-take, knows she hasn’t seen that present before. 

“Can I see that for a moment?” she says, just before Frannie tears into it. 

Frannie passes it over reluctantly and Carrie examines the package carefully. It’s just a regular box, store-wrapped, not too heavy. But definitely not from her, though there’s nothing else suspicious about the gift.

“It’s from Santa,” Frannie says. 

“No, you already got Santa’s present,” Carrie replies automatically.

“It says,” Frannie insists. 

Carrie looks at the package again and realizes that it does. Apparently the kid can read better than she thought. 

The gift reads “To Frannie, because you’ve been very good this year. From Santa.” 

It’s all too weird. Carrie stares at the gift, trying to will some sense into the situation. 

And just as Frannie pulls at the present, asks for it back, Carrie feels the pieces slipping into place. Things start to come together in her head, her intuition piqued.

She knows before Frannie opens it, exactly what it is. The purple thingamagummy. The impossible. 

Frannie is so excited, tears right into it and screams when she sees the thingamagummy. Shows it to Carrie, completely ecstatic. Then starts operating it immediately, an instant expert. 

Carrie smiles, beams. A real Christmas miracle, she thinks. 

It means everything to be able to give her daughter what she wants, even if it is just the newest fad, a ridiculous toy. She’s four, has gone through a lot already in her short life. 

The mystery thingamagummy saved Christmas for the both of them, not a small feat. And for a long while Carrie just watches as Frannie plays with the new toy, the happiest kid in the world. 

But then another thought slips into her head, her ever-sensitive intuition tickling at her neurons. 

“Frannie, I have to go outside for a minute okay,” Carrie says. “You stay here and play with the thingamagummy.” 

Frannie barely notices, nods her agreement.

*

Carrie walks out the door, wraps her arms around herself at the nip in the air. Looks up and down the block, then walks up to a dark sedan parked across from her place and opens the door, slides into the passenger seat. 

Sits in silence for a moment, tells herself that this is real, that this is all actually happening. 

“You know, I’d invite you in,” she finally says. “There’s even milk and cookies for Santa.” 

Quinn looks at her darkly. Scoffs. Pulls from a fresh bottle of whiskey.

“I see Santa’s already ahead of the game,” she says.

Quinn smirks, leans over and offers her the bottle. 

Carrie raises her eyebrows, grabs it, takes a long pull. 

Then takes the bottle hostage and holds it away from him while he glowers at her. Gets out, walks around the car, opens his door. 

“You coming?” she asks, waving the bottle at him as incentive. 

Quinn sighs, clearly exasperated. Looks up at her as he considers his next move. 

Then he tilts his head at her in that certain way that tells her she’s won. Sighs again, gets out of the car, follows her to her door. 

They walk in and Frannie’s still ecstatic, completely absorbed in the thingamagummy.

“Frannie, this is my friend Quinn,” Carrie says. “You should show him what you got from Santa.”

Frannie’s eyes light up even more than she thought possible. Flips her little four year old mind as she rushes up to Quinn and starts showing him every function of her new toy.

Quinn oohs and aahs at all the right moments, she even catches him smiling at Frannie’s in depth explanation of all the amazing features of the thingamagummy. 

Carrie smiles too, brings them both coffee. Then they sit on the couch, watching her kid play. 

Quinn still hasn’t really said a word, not even hello. And she has no idea what to say to him. How any of this happened. She hadn’t seen him in months, not since his latest disappearing act. 

This time he had really dropped out of existence. She couldn’t find any sign of him anywhere, not even after using up all her remaining favours with her best contacts. 

It’s mostly why she’d fucked up with the thingamagummy in the first place. Her mind was elsewhere. On him. 

“How the hell did you know?” she asks, finally breaking the silence. 

Quinn shrugs. 

“You work too hard,” he mutters. “I knew you’d be too busy.”

“But how did you know she wanted it?” Carrie asks. That’s the part that still doesn’t make any sense to her. Quinn is resourceful, clever. Even after everything that happened, his long recovery. But he’s still Quinn, even less practiced at parenting than her.

“It’s what every 4 year old wants,” he answers matter of factly, like it’s too obvious.

Carrie gives him a ‘seriously?’ look. And she sees him blink twice, realize how ridiculous it is that he knows that fact.

Quinn sighs. “I looked it up online,” he admits.

For a moment she realizes that means he’s been thinking about her, about them, all this time. But then that thought is superseded immediately by another, more pressing fact.

“And miraculously got one,” Carrie says, a little sarcastically. “I don’t even want to know how you did that.”

Quinn actually looks anxious for a moment, like he’s also realized the jig is up. Looks at her seriously. 

“I can’t reveal my source,” he replies eventually.

Carrie smiles at that, at that other thought too. It’s been a long time. And she’s really missed him. 

“Where have you been?” she asks, even though she knows she won’t get a straight answer.

“Around,” Quinn says, in flippant tone. 

“What about now?” Carrie asks. 

He looks at her, clearly unsure what she means. And she can barely hold onto her emotions, all that’s already happened that day. Expecting the worst. Finding Quinn on her doorstep. 

“You just going to disappear again, Santa?” she adds. 

Quinn is quiet, obviously thinking about it.

And she wonders again what it means that he showed up, has been thinking about her and Frannie all this time. Part of her wants to lock him up, make sure he can never run again. But of course she knows that will just make him want to escape all the more, that she can’t force him into anything. 

Quinn’s still thinking when Frannie comes back around, still flipping out about the new toy. 

“Come here, mom,” she insists, grabs at Carrie’s hand.

Carrie gets up, follows Frannie two steps towards the kitchen. But then Frannie stops, turns around. Points at Quinn, who’s still sitting on the sofa, looking unsure.

“I think she wants you to come too,” Carrie says. 

Quinn shrugs, stands up and plays along. For her kid. 

Carrie adores this about him, that he’s got this hidden gentle quality. Underneath all the black ops toughness, the sharp attitude. She knows he will do anything for her and her daughter. Even online shop, show up on Christmas.

Frannie pulls them over between the rooms, then stops directly under the arched opening. Looks at Carrie expectantly, then looks up. 

On cue, Carrie and Quinn both look up together, and Carrie laughs awkwardly to herself, realizes what’s about to happen.

“Really, Carrie?” he asks, in his best ‘as if’ tone. 

Carrie’s suddenly embarrassed, realizes how it appears. That she hung it in desperation, got Frannie in on the game, all in hopes of entrapping a man. 

“I didn’t put her up to this,” she quickly explains. “Some kid at preschool told her about mistletoe and, well, she likes kisses so she made me put it up.”

Quinn still looks skeptical. And Carrie is suddenly desperate for him to believe her, thinks how she can’t scare him off again. 

“I mean really,” she adds. “Like I expected you to show up after all this time?” 

Quinn still doesn’t say anything, freaking her out all the more. And then Frannie is tugging on her hand, demanding attention.

“Mom?” Frannie asks, expectantly.

Carrie sighs, then smiles at her daughter. Picks her up and gives her a kiss. 

Then turns to look at Quinn, nerves tingling. 

“Maybe you were waiting for someone else to show up,” he finally replies, a little gruffly.

Carrie scoffs, feels her chest unclench, her heart soften. She’s been looking for him everywhere. And still he thinks she’s waiting for someone else. 

“Quinn?” she says, gives him her best ‘you’re an idiot’ look.

He raises his eyebrows in question. And she thinks well fuck. If he’s going to run, he’s going to run. 

And, of course, just then Frannie tugs on her hand again, gives them both significant looks. Carrie can almost hear the ‘ahem’ the four year old is directing at them.

They look at each other, nervous energy between them. He is so serious, unsure. So Carrie smiles, then exhales nervously. Reaches up, pulls him towards her.

Her reward is seeing him smile for just the barest of moments, in that last millisecond before their lips meet and he wraps his arms around her.

It’s more tentative than that other time, less whiskey in both of them. But then she feels him relax into it quickly, extend things longer than she expected. 

It’s one of those perfect moments in life, a rarity for her. She got exactly what she wanted for Christmas, the thing she didn’t even know how to ask for. 

“Merry Christmas, Carrie,” he says, into her hair. 

“It is. Thanks to you,” she replies. 

Glances up at the mistletoe again, sees him smile at her hint. Has just a moment to think she must have been really good this year before he leans in again, ready for another round.


End file.
